


i like ya fancy

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, No Sex, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, but this does get a little spicy and dark, kiyoomi's the dog and atsumu has him on a tight leash, nothing graphic, sakuatsu best friends agenda, sorry to all dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi hates formal dinners: the sitting stiff, the stunted small talk, the sucking up to snobby donors.What he doesn’t hate is getting ready beforehand with Miya Atsumu — even if they make each other late.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 159





	i like ya fancy

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, yer (least) fave redneck rascal, foxkillskat, thinkin back to all the terribly borin fancy dinner banquets I had to sit through durin school
> 
> the best part (the part that made it all worth it) was getting ready with my best friend beforehand, even if we were late more than once 👀 
> 
> enjoy the mess!!!

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s room is a mess.

There are clothes everywhere. Rumpled on the floor, thrown over the back of his desk chair, strewn across the bed. It’s going to take him hours to put his closet back in order and they haven’t even started on shoes.

“Still doesn’t look right.” Atsumu taps his foot, hands on his hips. “How do ya have so many clothes and none of ‘em go together?”

“They looked fine to me.” Kiyoomi huffs.

If he has to try on one more shirt, he’s going to lose it. He’s going to back into his closet, shut the door, and never come out. Anything would be better than attending another incredibly boring dinner surrounded by the worst kind of people. Entitled people. People who truly believe he owes them his time, his words, his personal space simply because they back the team. 

Is he grateful for their support? Absolutely. But there are better ways to show gratitude than being forced to sit stiff through speeches and stilted small talk.

“I’m not feeling well,” he makes a last-ditch attempt to weasel out of it.

“No way! Yer not leavin’ me like this again!” Atsumu barks. “Do ya even know what I went through last time you were _sick_?” He makes air quotes with his fingers around the word and Kiyoomi nearly snorts at how stupid he looks. “No less than ten of those crotchety creeps tried to set me up with their daughters. It was the worst.”

“What? You don’t want to be eye candy for some donor’s kid?” Kiyoomi teases. “You’d make a perfect sugar baby — all you do is whine and cry.”

“Yer sick in the head, that’s what ya are.” Atsumu punches Kiyoomi in the arm. “I would never.”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Kiyoomi presses, hand holding to the remnant of Atsumu’s touch. 

He’s certainly thought about it — more times than he cares to admit. It’s a tempting idea: Atsumu on a leash for once. Atsumu listening. Atsumu doing what he asks.

“No way, Omi-kun.” Atsumu crosses his arms. “My love’s not fer sale.”

Kiyoomi’s lip curls. “You’re disgustingly sappy, you know that?”

“It’s called bein’ a romantic.” Atsumu smiles to himself, pleased. “You should try it some time. Might warm yer icy heart a little.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Sometimes he can’t stand how wholesome Atsumu is. No one should be allowed to wear their heart on their sleeve like that, to love so openly and deeply all at once. Disgusting is the only way to describe it.

But also, it looks disgustingly good on him. Same as the perfectly pressed button down he’s wearing. He’s rolled the sleeves up to rest tight on his strong forearms and when he throws his hands over his head in a stretch, the red material strains across his chest, gaping at the buttons.

Kiyoomi swallows. He has to stop doing this to himself. He has to stop thinking about pushing Atsumu up against the wall, ripping those buttons free, and making him moan that stupid bastardization of his name over and over and over until there’s nothing left but the ‘O’.

It’s Atsumu’s fault, really, for being so incredibly attractive. But then again, Kiyoomi could have picked a best friend he didn’t want to bend over. If he had known it would come to this, he would have never—

“Are ya even listenin’ to me?” Atsumu interrupts him mid-thought.

“Huh?” Kiyoomi can’t recall a word said. He also can’t come up with anything he would do differently, given the chance. Not when Atsumu is giving him that exasperated expression which leaves him exasperatingly fond.

“God, yer hopeless.” Atsumu disappears into the closet. 

When he comes back out, he flicks off the light with finality, two more shirts in hand. Without hesitation, he gets right up in Kiyoomi’s personal space like he owns it, holding up one after the other. 

“Hmm, the grey might match yer pants the best” —he purses his lips— “but I like the gold accent on this one.” 

The shirt he’s holding up is one Kiyoomi doesn’t remember buying. He certainly hasn’t worn it before. The black material shines new with tiny threads of gold running through the weave. They show in the light, shimmering as Atsumu waves it back and forth.

“Think it’ll make yer eyes pop,” he adds.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kiyoomi squints at him. “How does some shirt make my eyes _pop_?” 

  
Great. Now he’s making air quotes. The fact that he’s picked up mannerisms from Atsumu says a lot about him and none of it good. Kiyoomi didn’t sign up for this: becoming more and more alike by the day, merging into one.

“Easy.” Atsumu beams up at him, and—

_Oh._

Kiyoomi can feel his eyes pop. 

“Gold warms ya up,” Atsumu explains, “makes yer frigid look a little more approachable.”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and looks away. “Why do I feel like you just insulted me?”

Atsumu inserts himself back in Kiyoomi’s line of sight to give him an impish grin. “I would never, Omi.”

Omi.

Kiyoomi blinks. It’s too early in the night for him to be dropping the honorific. Usually it takes a few drinks first, an hour or so spent sidled up to the bar where Atsumu’s face grows more and more red and his laughs more and more loose. If Kiyoomi’s lucky enough to survive this boring banquet they might end up there tonight, side-by-side in some dark corner, sipping while they talk shit about all the backhanded compliments and awkward conversations they had to endure. He missed that last time, almost enough to regret choosing to stay home in bed.

“Earth to Omi,” Atsumu yanks him out of his head again with that name.

“Don’t you want me to look unapproachable?” Kiyoomi asks, choosing not to hear it. “How else are you planning scare away all the sugar daddies with their sugar daughters?”

“Good point.” Atsumu laughs. “Grey it is, then, even though I’d really like to see this one on ya.” He waves it in the air again, flaunting the gold.

“Give it,” Kiyoomi demands, incapable of disappointing Atsumu. 

He doesn’t know why. He has no problem disappointing anyone else: his parents, his siblings, his past boyfriends. Maybe because none of them could even remotely be considered a best friend. Maybe because the ‘love’ he supposedly has or had for them wasn’t that at all. Maybe because, more than anything, he wants to be satisfied and, even more than that, he wants Atsumu the same.

Atsumu rewards him with a grin as he takes the shirt. But before Kiyoomi can even register it, he does something even worse, something which sends Kiyoomi’s heart hammering away at his rib cage. Atsumu holds up his right arm, tilts his wrist ever so slightly, and stares at the face of his watch with his brows knotted and bottom lip sticking out.

There is no valid explanation for why Kiyoomi finds an idiot struggling to read an analog clock so goddamn endearing. None. There’s also no viable reason for it to turn him on, yet here he is thinking about that honeyed voice crying out his name in sickly sweet syllables.

“Twenty minutes ‘til we need to leave,” Atsumu decides after far too long. “Ya better get yer ass into gear.”

Kiyoomi wants to get Atsumu’s ass into gear.

Oh god, what does that even mean? Atsumu’s idiocy is rubbing off on him too. All logic has left him. Kiyoomi shuffles backward into the closet and shuts the door.

“Don’t ya want the light on?” Atsumu asks through it with a chuckle. “Yer such a gremlin.”

With a palm pressed to the wood, Kiyoomi can feel each and every word reverberate through each and every one of his layers, destroying them, vaporizing them. Atsumu is going to be the death of him. Kiyoomi’s going to die empty-headed, exposed, and entirely enchanted by his best friend. What a way to go out.

Kiyoomi sucks in a deep breath and finds he isn’t dead yet. For now, he focuses on getting out of this shirt, the fifth one he was forced to try on. If it were up to him, he would have stopped after the first, but Atsumu simply wasn’t satisfied. 

“Omi-kun?” his voice returns along with the honorific.

Thank god. Kiyoomi makes it a few more buttons.

“Omiiiiii,” Atsumu whines.

Kiyoomi gives up. He rips off the shirt, not caring there were a whole two buttons to go. If he broke them, oh well — Atsumu didn’t like this one anyways. 

Here in the dark he’s feeling for sleeves, threading his arms through them when the door creaks open. Atsumu’s face appears brighter than the blinding bedroom lights, overjoyed at the sight of him like some dumb puppy with no sense of object permanence. Kiyoomi would be a liar if he said he didn’t find it incredibly cute. He grabs hold of the closet rod to keep from keeling over.

“Omi—” Atsumu starts up again and it’s entirely too much.

“What?” Kiyoomi channels all his frustration into a single word and Atsumu shrinks, smile falling away.

Kiyoomi instantly wants to take it back.

“What did you want?” he tries a little softer, coaxing only a fraction of that look to return.

“Just seein’ if ya were done yet.” Atsumu’s voice is soft, but his eyes are pointed. 

They might be traveling down the exposed strip of Kiyoomi’s flesh from his collar to his belt.

He could swear it.

No. 

Kiyoomi shakes his head and starts buttoning the shirt as fast as his fingers allow. Enough with this projecting. Even if Atsumu is looking, it doesn’t mean anything. To his very core, he’s a setter: always observing, always aware, always analyzing the space between himself and his spikers. Being caught in his gaze is nothing new for Kiyoomi. Still, his fingers shake by the time he reaches the top button.

When he comes out of the closet and into the light, Atsumu comes closer. Once again, he invades Kiyoomi’s personal space, entitled to it. With a look of pure determination on his face, he tugs on the collar and shifts the shoulders until they sit to his command.

“Arm?” he requests and Kiyoomi barely registers the word before his body complies.

To be leashed like this is a terrifying and thrilling thing, to know Atsumu could ask him for anything and he would be do it without thought, without hesitation, without even the slightest consideration of refusal.

Kiyoomi’s the dog, really — perfectly trained to do whatever it takes to see that smile.

“Other arm,” Atsumu demands, showing teeth.

The sleeve rolled high on Kiyoomi’s forearm digs into his flesh as his hand falls to his side and tightens into a fist. Atsumu doesn’t notice, too busy working on the next. Kiyoomi holds his breath like he holds his thumb with the rest of his fingers, cradling it, keeping it until this is over.

Atsumu finishes with the sleeves, but he isn’t done. With one hand he pulls Kiyoomi by the belt, jerking him forward. There’s no time to protest before Atsumu’s other hand is sliding down his abdomen, fingertips dipping below the waist of his pants to tuck away his shirttails.

“What” —Kiyoomi grits his teeth to keep from sucking in a breath— “are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Hold still.” There’s a lilt to his voice as he circles Kiyoomi, hand smoothing over his hip and his spine, all the way around to his other hip and back. 

“There, all done.” Atsumu steps away to admire his work, hands on his hips. “Wow, ya look fancy.”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to find he has no words.

“Wear this one fer me, Omi.” Atsumu looks up at him, pleading with his dumb puppy eyes.

It takes everything in Kiyoomi, every ounce of his self-control to stop from pulling Atsumu into him and never letting go.

“We’re friends. We’re just friends. We are only friends,” he repeats in his head.

Atsumu laughs a weird, stunted laugh. “I’m aware.”

Oh fuck. He said that out loud.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even remember closing his eyes, but they snap open to find Atsumu with a tinge of pink across his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean—” Kiyoomi stops, unwilling or unable to lie, he isn’t sure; all he knows is this has to end. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Thought about what, Omi?” Atsumu asks, and Kiyoomi honestly can’t tell if he’s feigning innocence. 

There’s no way he’s this stupid.

“Don’t call me that,” Kiyoomi barks. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“What’s wrong with callin’ ya Omi? I thought you liked it.” Atsumu squints, a pout forming. “Also, we’re gonna be late fer sure if ya don’t find some shoes.”

“I don’t give a fuck if we’re late!” Kiyoomi wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “How can you be so incredibly dense?”

There’s a moment of silence. Atsumu raises a brow.

“Wanna know somethin’, Omi?” He moves in, mere centimeters between their faces.

“Do I?” Kiyoomi chokes out.

“I’ve noticed ya have a bad habit lately.” Atsumu steps forward and Kiyoomi steps back. “Yer always doin’ whatever I tell ya to do, aren’t ya?”

Atsumu doesn’t stop coming closer and closer and Kiyoomi doesn’t stop backing away further and further into his closet until he trips over a rumpled pair of pants. The rest of the clothes scattered on the floor cushion his fall and, without hesitation, Atsumu drops to his knees and continues his forward crawl.

“Tell me, Omi.”

Kiyoomi’s spine hits the wall.

“Is it ‘cause ya love me?” Atsumu tilts his head, eyes wide in the dark. “Or just ‘cause ya wanna fuck me?”

There’s a right answer here. There’s absolutely a right answer. An answer where Kiyoomi denies it all, asserts once more they are friends, just friends, only friends.

“I see ya tryin’ to get outta this one too.” Atsumu cocks a brow. “I’m really not as _dense_ as you think.” He doesn’t need to make air quotes this time; his point is loud and clear.

“You’re doing this on purpose then?” Kiyoomi’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah, I am. I wanna see what you’ll do.” Atsumu presses a palm to Kiyoomi’s chest, straightening his shoulder against the wall. “How far yer willin’ to go fer me.”

“Why?” Kiyoomi asks that hand.

“I already told ya.” Atsumu’s fingers dig into him, twisting in his shirt. “I wanna know if you love me.”

With that, Atsumu’s crawling into his lap, knees finding floor on either side of Kiyoomi’s hips and—

Oh god.

Kiyoomi whimpers like a fucking dog.

“You can’t tell me ya haven’t thought ‘bout it.” Atsumu throws his words right back at him, fingers knotting in Kiyoomi’s hair, tilting his head back until all he can see are those too-dark eyes. 

They’re not supposed to be this dark. They’re not supposed to suck him in, steal his breath in the worst way. They’re supposed to be light and warm and happy. They’re supposed to match his smile.

“We’re going to be late,” Kiyoomi attempts, weak.

“Too late fer that.” Atsumu’s words dig into him. “You already said ya didn’t care ‘bout bein’ late.”

Kiyoomi squeezes every single muscle in his body, winds himself so tight he might never come undone. Good.

“Tell me,” Atsumu demands again, weight sinking in.

“I—” Kiyoomi’s chest is too tense, throat too closed.

“Tell me what yer thinkin’ ‘bout when ya look at me like this!” Atsumu shakes him by his shirt. “Do ya even listen to what I say to ya? Do ya even like bein’ with me?”

Kiyoomi can’t speak.

“Do ya even like me?” Atsumu stops shaking. “Do you?”

Kiyoomi tries to understand what the hell is happening. He searches for any remnants of his long-gone logic, anything at all that could help him comprehend why Atsumu is in his lap, pressing into him and upset with him all at once. Hot and cold. No. Burning hot and freezing cold. What did Kiyoomi do wrong?

“Yer just like everyone else,” Atsumu mutters as he covers his face with both hands.

“What are you even talking about?” Kiyoomi’s words come back. “What’s wrong?”

With that, Atsumu’s hands are falling away. He laughs. It’s an awful sound, a jarring thing that makes Kiyoomi want to cover his ears and drown it out. This isn’t the laugh Kiyoomi knows and loves. This is something darker, something poisonous.

“Let’s get it over with then.” Atsumu’s nose appears cold at Kiyoomi’s ear, wracking his entire body with a shiver. “I’ll let you have it. I’ll give ya what ya want.”

“What—” Kiyoomi starts and ends.

Atsumu’s fingers are at his buttons. Atsumu’s hips are shifting against him. Atsumu’s whole body is sinking into Kiyoomi, merging them into one.

“Now ya can stop pretendin’ to care ‘bout me,” comes the icy whisper at his ear.

“Stop it.” Kiyoomi pushes with everything in him, but Atsumu holds strong, knees digging in.

“Why? This is what ya want.” Atsumu’s fingers twist in his collar, wrapping it tight around his throat. “Do one last thing fer me and then we can both be done.”

“No” —Kiyoomi tries to shake his head free— "I don't want to be done—” He gasps for air. “Stop!”

Finally, Atsumu listens. Stops moving. Stops choking. Even his face stops, frozen in a disturbing combination of hurt and confusion.

“I don’t—” Kiyoomi sucks in another breath, hand feeling at his neck in place of Atsumu’s. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Yer askin’ me that? Really?” Atsumu glares. “Ya act like yer my friend, but then every time I turn around yer lookin’ at me all cold, all hungry like some starved dog,” Atsumu spits. “I know what that look means; I’m not dense.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes back. “What does it mean?” 

“You want me,” Atsumu states, “but ya don’t love me.”

Kiyoomi’s lips part.

“Ya couldn’t even tell me you like me.” Atsumu blinks hard and fast. “Yer only nice to me ‘cause ya wanna use me, ‘cause I got somethin’ ya want. Yer like everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Kiyoomi argues.

“Then what is the truth?” Atsumu demands. “Tell me, Sakusa.”

Kiyoomi’s hand slides from his throat to his chest. He’s pretty sure he’s just had his heart ripped out and torn to shreds. Why can’t he find the hole? 

“Don’t call me that,” he manages.

Atsumu glares, waiting. He’s really going to make Kiyoomi say it.

“The truth is I do want you” —his eyes trail down Atsumu— “like that.”

Atsumu’s chest stops moving. He stops breathing.

“But that’s not all.” Kiyoomi looks up into those heavy eyes. “That’s not why I’m your friend.”

Atsumu’s brows come together.

“I like spending time with you.” Kiyoomi’s words are lining up now, ready to spill out. “I like it so much that I’m looking forward to this awful dinner just because it means I get to be with you. Listen to your laugh. See your face.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t think I had to tell you. I thought you knew I cared about you.” Kiyoomi frowns. “I do everything you say because I have to” —he swallows his pride— “I have to make you happy. I need you to smile because of me.”

“Omi-kun, stop.” Atsumu shoves his face into his arm. “Yer gonna make me cry.”

“I’m sorry.” Kiyoomi rests his hand on Atsumu’s arm, fingers reaching for that soft hair. “I didn’t mean to make you think that.” At the last moment, he pulls back, not allowing himself to touch, refusing an undeserved reward. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say it.”

“You were sayin’ it!” Atsumu blurts out as he swipes his eyes. “Ya were sayin’ it with all those things and I was too dense to see it.” He falls forward into Kiyoomi, head resting on his shoulder with a groan. “I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m the one saying sorry,” Kiyoomi contends.

Atsumu peers up, brows knotted with insistence. “No, me.”

“Nope.” Kiyoomi’s lips twitch into a smile. “I said it first.”

“Well, I meant it more.” Atsumu pouts.

Something possesses Kiyoomi in this moment. Pushes him to lean down and plant a kiss on Atsumu’s forehead. “I did.”

The noise Atsumu makes could only be considered a yelp of excitement. “Did you just—”

“I win.” Kiyoomi smirks.

“Let me win.” Atsumu pleads with his cute puppy eyes. “Make me happy.”

Kiyoomi could swear he hears a dog whimpering somewhere. Oh wait, that’s him.

“You win,” he gives in, “anything for you.”

“And you had the nerve to call me sappy.” Atsumu’s chuckle leaves Kiyoomi’s face hot.

“You told me to try it,” he whines with a pout of his own.

“God, yer so cute.” Atsumu stretches his neck and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

He isn’t done. His lips stay there like they own the place, warm as they deliver kiss after kiss after kiss.

“Stop that.” Kiyoomi pulls back after what must have been the tenth one and Atsumu comes with him.

“Never,” Atsumu says between them, “I’m gonna kiss ya until I die.”

“Now that’s disgustingly sappy.” Kiyoomi smiles into it.

Without hesitation, he turns his head to catch one on his lips.

For the second time, Atsumu rewards him with that excited noise. “Did you just—”

Kiyoomi shuts him up with another. “Yes.”

Atsumu groans and grabs at his heart through his shirt. “Yer gonna be the death of me, Omi.”

Omi. 

Kiyoomi’s hips twitch. “Don’t call me that.”

“I thought you liked—” Atsumu’s eyes go wide. “You do like it, don’t ya Omi?” He smirks and shifts his hips. “Oh.”

That ‘oh’ does it for Kiyoomi. Ruins him completely. Has him whining like a dog after a treat.

“Ya like that a little too much, huh?” Atsumu’s hand returns to his buttons as he continues moving, feeling out the situation.

Kiyoomi watches him work, eyes that strong wrist adorned with a fancy watch, minute hand ticking past the hour as Atsumu undoes his shirt. 

“Fuck!” he cries as it hits him.

“Huh?” Atsumu stops moving altogether.

“We’re late! Coach is going to kill us!”

And with that, they both scramble up. Kiyoomi frantically redoing buttons and adjusting his pants, Atsumu throwing shoe after shoe off the rack, stopping briefly to hold up each one, debating. Right as Kiyoomi finishes straightening himself, Atsumu settles on a pair, shiny and black.

“Foot,” he demands and Kiyoomi complies so fast, he almost falls over.

Atsumu has him, free hand holding to his calf muscle as the other slips the shoe on his foot. He’s looking up at Kiyoomi with light eyes, warm and happy. He’s smiling as he ties the laces. And when he finishes with both, he’s rising from the floor trailing his pointer finger up Kiyoomi the entire way.

“Wow.” Atsumu reaches his collar. “I like ya fancy.”

Kiyoomi smiles. “And I like us alive. Let’s go.”

——

Coach doesn’t kill them, even though the chance of him ending their lives with drills the next day at practice seems likely.

For now, they’ve survived. They make it through the boring speeches and the awkward small talk; they even manage to suck up to some donors, side by side. Well, Atsumu does. Kiyoomi mostly nods politely, cutting off conversation with cold looks any time it turns toward dating. Once or twice, he even rests his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, raising brows without a care in the world. All that matters is Atsumu glancing up at him with a smile on his face.

First chance they get, they’re out of there. Refusing Hinata and Bokuto’s offer of a wild karaoke night, they find their way to a quieter spot: the dimly lit corner of some forgotten bar, a place off the beaten path where they can be alone. They start as usual, sipping drinks and talking shit, but soon enough their eyes are meeting in ways neither are too dense to notice.

“I’m glad ya wore that shirt fer me.” Atsumu’s gaze slides down the length of it from Kiyoomi’s collar to where it’s coming untucked, slipping free of the confines of his belt. “It’s my favorite.”

Kiyoomi smiles, a little hazy from the attention. “It’s funny — I don’t remember buying this. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before in my life.”

Atsumu snickers. “That’s because I bought it fer ya.”

“You what?” Kiyoomi’s glass clinks as he sets it down on the wood. He straightens atop the barstool, thigh sliding against Atsumu’s.

“I saw it and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it on ya.” Atsumu’s grin is impish. “I actually brought it over last time; left it in yer closet when ya were _sick_.” He makes air quotes around the word and Kiyoomi’s heart flips.

“Why did you make me try on all those other shirts then?” He forces his eyes to narrow.

“What can I say?” Atsumu smirks. “I’m a sucker fer ya all fancy.”

“You dog.” Kiyoomi shakes his head.

“If that was supposed to be an insult, yer gonna have to try harder,” Atsumu teases. “I am a dog — a lucky dog.”

Kiyoomi snorts. “You’re lucky I love dogs.”

Something in the air changes — maybe it’s the lighting. Whatever it is has Atsumu’s eyes going dark. Not too dark; not like they did in the closet. Just dark enough for his pupils to invite Kiyoomi in, to tell him to make himself at home.

“Me too,” Atsumu says with sincerity. “I love you, Omi.”

Kiyoomi can feel his eyes pop. His hand finds hold on his chest, twisting in the gold-laced fabric. He’s pretty sure he’s just had his icy heart melted. Why can’t he find the puddle?

“Ya don’t have to say it back.” Atsumu rests a hand on his leg, thumb brushing skin through the woven layers of his pants, through all the layers of him, destroying them, vaporizing them. “Not out loud.”

Kiyoomi does. Atsumu didn’t tell him to, and yet he has to do this more than anything.

He trades holding his shirt for holding Atsumu’s hand, fingers finding purchase in each other, thumbs meeting as they move.

“I love you too,” Kiyoomi declares out loud.

Atsumu rewards him with a smile.


End file.
